My Guilt(y) Pleasures
Basics cam has turned me into the antichrist
In my first ever DoS meeting, I was reminded that, 'you have 168 hours in your week, that is the same as Beyonce, what are you going to do with them?' — well, she might have just said 'The Queen', and maybe I inferred from that that she meant the Musical Messiah, but the basic message was that time is short, and there is plenty to do.
From squeezing in extracurriculars to our already packed schedule of 9am lectures and seminars (which we are all attending, obviously) something's gotta give. And for me, it was my moral compass.
You will soon learn, that in Cambridge, 'ain't nobody got time for that.'
Taking people's laundry out of the washing machine
The trek down to the laundry room is already arduous enough. Followed by the nightmare that is topping up the card which is around £32 for a light wash of knickers. The last thing you need is to arrive at your destination and find that there are no empty washing machines.
After a quick Sophie's Choice worthy moral conundrum, I decide to pick the machine with the most sports gear inside, partly out of jealousy that I was always picked last for P.E games.
As a young and timid fresher I would wait a while to see if people would turn up to collect their laundry. But 2 years down the line and countless traumas later, I have resorted to pure barbarism. The wet clothes will be dumped on the floor. Not even on the nearby bench.
Cambridge is a cut-throat world, it is doggo-eat-doggo if you will.
As a Hill-college resident I have the right to moan about my long walk home [god knows you do it all enough anyway]. I also don't cycle, so these boots are made for walking, but it can be tough.
So here and there I have a cheeky Uber. It's casual, I tell myself.
It starts off as a cab back from a night out, the pals are fairly pissed and cheesy-chip-cladden and simply aren't in the mood.
Then its an occasional cab back from town, all the hours of shopping in Zara have worn me out and I simply can't face the walk.
And the next thing you know it, I'm Ubering to other colleges, to my lectures, to the library. It is totally out of hand. It has lost all sense of meaning.
UL Tea Room
Ever since it joined the rest of civilisation and didn't have a credit card minimum of a fiver, the Tea Room is now one of my biggest weaknesses.
No matter if I have meticulously food-prepped for a week, with a delightful mix of sandwiches and couscous Tupperware's, I always fall at the lunchtime hurdle.
When you had to spend a minimum of £5, my impulsive nature was forcefully reigned in. There was only so many times I could buy a selection of soft mints to reach the threshold. Regardless of how peng the pastry section was looking I would have to pull myself back.
But now, the gloves are off. The contactless card has been let loose into the wild.
I can heartily justify a number of hot drinks, a plate full of roast potatoes and a random pain-au-chocolat on my many trips to the Tea Room throughout my hardworking day of approx 3 hours.
I dream of having a perch and watching on loop the guide of how to successfully lock and unlock your locker. Whilst proudly clasping my most unnecessary purchase, my packed-lunch is sitting comfortably in said locker.
Approaching my final year in Cambridge, I know I have learned one thing at least.
The art of a 12 minute nap.
I know the science will tell you that 20 minutes is optimum. But just as Donald J Trump will tell you, Global Warming is a certi-hoax, and so is the rest of the academic community.
12 sweet minutes is all you need. And more importantly, 12 minutes is all you have. Because, when you're in between 2 essays, a seminar presentation, a committee meeting is fast approaching annnd the kettle is boiling, time is of the essence.
I don't even want to show you my Alarm clock: it is utterly infested with intermittent snooze alarms every couple of minutes. And that's not just for the morning. You see, the only real structure of my day is punctuated by these randomly precise afternoon naps.
If they're under 12 minutes you're left feeling crabby, and if its over the 12 mark then you're even groggier than you were before, and furious because you've ruined the pedantic system of time-management that fascists would be proud of. 12 is the sweet spot.
This isn't necessarily my proudest hour (ha ha ha).
Like the feeding yourself shebang. This is a whole host of issues.
Life at Cam is so dreary that an afternoon waltz down to the local grocer really is the highlight of my day. From inspecting the new produce to seeing that the Pringles are on sale again [!!], it really is an exhilarating ride.
The self-loathing continues with my obsession of buying any random food which is reduced in regardless of whether it suits my tastes or that my fridge is already stocked. Yes of course I need another trifle which expires tomorrow.
This is painfully followed by my habit of forgetting to bring my Bag For Life every trip to the shops, so now my bedroom is an overflowing Narnia of thin bright orange bags.
I really could go on and on.
Or how about that one fated day that the laziness completely overwhelmed me, and I bought a pre-cut and cheesed jacket potato.
I'm not sure when exactly my morality left my system and I started engaging in all of these heinous and savage acts, but I think it was somewhere around getting some decent UCAS points.